The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Read online

  “Nothing. I don’t want nothing.”

  “It’s been, what, fifty years? What do you have to gain by frightening my daughter?”

  “You don’t give up. I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. If someone broke into your daughter’s house, it’s not my problem. It had to be somebody else you screwed.”

  I hesitate. Abe sounds convincing. But he’s the only one who knows Becks is poking around. He could’ve broken in. Lord knows breaking and entering was one of the skills he developed back in Bayonne. But he’d have needed help, a younger guy, to do that much damage. That wouldn’t be a problem. No, it had to be Abe.

  “You have a beef with me, see me,” I say. “But you bother my daughter again and I’ll break your legs.” I slam the phone into the receiver.

  I thought I’d feel better after the call. But I don’t. Images of Becks alone—watching television, working at her desk, asleep in bed—haunt me. She has a big house with lots of doors and windows. I think about calling her, telling her to make sure everything is locked and secured. But I can’t do it, not this late. I’d scare her more than she already is.

  I turn on the television and watch fifteen minutes of a late night talk show before abandoning the effort and picking up a book. It’s hard to concentrate on the words but I keep trying. Every time I look up from the page, my chest constricts and I go back to reading to drive away the fear. It’s three in the morning before I rise from the couch and enter the bedroom. Even then, the image of Becks’ frightened, angry face returns, keeping me awake. I catch a glimpse of sunlight filtering through my bedroom blinds before I finally drift off.

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  19

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  I arrive at the synagogue at nine thirty the Saturday morning after my meeting with Tootsie and slide into the last row, stepping around three sets of knees before dropping into the plush velvet seat next to Mindy. The flowery scent of expensive perfume fills the air, creating a heady counterpoint to the musty odor of the prayer books that lie open on congregants’ laps. From back here, the room is an ocean of black shoulders draped in undulating waves of blue-and-white tallits, the fringed shawls worn by Jews during prayer. Here and there, the pastel of a woman’s dress breaks the dark pattern of men’s backs.

  Many of the worshippers, myself included, are here for the bar mitzvah of Zach Birnbaum. He sits on the raised dais at the front of the congregation, a small figure in an oversized wingback chair between the larger forms of his parents, Aviva and Noah. The rabbi’s just led the congregation in the prayer honoring Judaism’s founding fathers and mothers, and it’s growing close to the moment when Zach goes to the lectern to read from the Torah. I smile when he brings a hand to his face and Aviva pushes it away. I’ve seen those gestures hundreds of time. The poor kid’s nervous and needs to bite his nails. Aviva won’t let him. Today he becomes a man—at least, according to Jewish law.

  I hate arriving late for the service but I overslept. I’ve had trouble falling asleep all week. My father’s assurance he’d contact Abe did little to convince me I’d be left alone and I startle awake at every little creak in the house. I wonder if I’d feel so skittish if Daniel were living at home. He was a good sport about running downstairs to check the doors and windows when I imagined noises at night. In the two months he’s been gone, I haven’t felt his absence as strongly as I have since the break-in. It’s not just his physical presence either. I felt a certain confidence around him, a knowledge that whatever happened, he’d get me through it. It seems a lifetime ago.

  I’ve picked up my prayer book and am trying to locate the page we’re on when Mindy elbows me across our shared armrest. I look at her and raise an eyebrow.

  “Daniel,” she whispers.

  “What about him?” I keep my voice low.

  “Over there.”

  I follow her gaze to the front of the synagogue and gasp. Mindy grabs my hand.

  Blood flows into my cheeks and my stomach lurches. I struggle to focus on the service but can’t draw my eyes from Daniel’s back. He’s almost six feet four inches and sits a head taller than anyone else in his row. His shoulder twitches and he glances over it, no doubt sensing my stare. A woman I don’t recognize is seated next to him. I clench Mindy’s hand when Daniel leans in to whisper to her. At least it’s not Dawn. Having Daniel show up with a woman his sons’ age would be too humiliating.

  Damn Aviva. She’s one of my oldest friends. What was she thinking, inviting Daniel to Zach’s bar mitzvah? And the nerve of him—bringing a date. Then I remember. The invitation arrived months ago—before our separation. In all the excitement after the break-in, I forgot. Besides which Daniel plays basketball with Noah on Sunday morning and has as much right to be here as I do. Not that this makes me feel better. I wish I’d steeled myself for this moment.

  I spend most of the service trying to figure out who the woman is. A new girlfriend? The bastard. I hope he’ll have the decency to leave as soon as the service is over and skip the reception.

  I struggle to relax and focus on Zach’s voice as he chants his Torah portion. He does a wonderful job, his voice cracking only once. The rabbi concludes the service and, while we’re standing and singing the closing song, I catch Daniel’s gaze. He smiles and waves. I turn toward Mindy and pretend I don’t notice.

  Who am I kidding? He’s not leaving after services. He wouldn’t want to hurt Aviva and Noah’s feelings. With a sinking sensation, I realize there’s no escaping an encounter with Daniel and his date.

  Mindy and I join the crowd that rushes to the front of the synagogue to hug and congratulate Aviva, Noah, and Zach. That done, the two of us leave the sanctuary and head down a broad, marble-tiled corridor to the hall where the cocktail reception is being held. Mindy, whose husband is visiting his mother in Indianapolis, pastes herself to my side, a stocky, middle-aged bulldog prepared to run interference with Daniel.

  We stop at the entrance to admire the decorations—gold lamé table runners over black linen tablecloths and an endless array of hors d’oeuvres on silver platters. Mindy and I help ourselves to the flutes of champagne and delicate lamb chops offered by white-gloved waiters before making a beeline to the table with seating cards. Mindy and I are at table six. I sneak a peek at Daniel’s and relax. He’s across the room at table eleven.

  I’m about to break the good news to Mindy when a hand presses the small of my back.

  “Becks.” My heart skips a beat. It’s Daniel.

  I do my best to compose my face before turning around.

  Daniel smiles hesitantly as he takes the elbow of the woman who sat next to him in the synagogue and propels her toward me. They make a handsome couple, him in his best black suit and her in a red dress that shows off a tiny waist. I hold my breath, expecting the worst.

  “Have you met Sarah, Noah’s sister?” Then, to her. “This is Becks. My wife.”

  I breathe again. Of course. Sarah. I met her years earlier, before her husband died. She was blond then. Noah must have asked Daniel to sit with her.

  We shake hands and ask about each other’s children.

  Then Daniel asks Mindy and Sarah to excuse us, explaining we have a few things to discuss. He does it with such finesse that it doesn’t occur to me to refuse when he steers me to a two-person table near the bar. He pulls my chair out before seating himself, then leans in toward me and gets down to business.

  “Why don’t you answer the phone when I call?” He sounds angry and hurt.

  “What’s there to say?”

  “Plenty. I made an appointment with a marriage counselor last Wednesday and was embarrassed when you didn’t show.”

  I heard his telephone message about the appointment and ignored it. I didn’t think he’d go without me.

  “There didn’t seem any point in my coming. You’ve already decided I should forgive you and let bygones be bygones.”


  “Aren’t you being a little simplistic?”

  “No, you’re the one who’s being simplistic.” I start to rise, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back into my seat. The man and woman at the table to our right stare, then avert their eyes.

  “Becks, I made a mistake. A big one.” He drops his voice. “I never cheated on you before and regret what I did more than you can imagine. But that’s past. I’ve taken care of all your expenses, called every day. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  All I can think about is getting away from him. “Do you really think it’s that easy to forget that you slept with another woman?”

  “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you could answer the phone and talk to me. Your silence isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “I don’t know that talking will help.” I take a deep breath to control the sob that’s welling up. “What you did . . .”

  He stares down at the table. When he looks up, his eyes are damp. I avoid meeting them with my own.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.”

  “I don’t know.” My voice is flat and expressionless with the effort of controlling my emotions.

  “What do you mean?”

  A half dozen couples I recognize mingle, smiling and laughing, near the bar. Daniel and I went to dinner and sat through Little League games with them years ago. A few were at our sons’ bar mitzvahs. With a pang of sorrow, I recall how proud Daniel and I were as we watched our boys read from the Torah, of how united we felt in our love for each other and our sons. Why are those couples together when we aren’t? Do the men still find their wives desirable? I feel like such a failure, such a fool. Mindy stands by the bar, watching us, a bodyguard in a frilly pink dress. She gives me a little wave and I nod back.

  “I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I tell Daniel. “I told my father what happened and he said get over it. But I can’t. It’s not as simple as you and he think.”

  Daniel grabs a napkin off the table and crushes it. “I knew it would come to this.” He sounds resigned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your parents. Your father was a lousy husband and your mother put up with it.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  He half rises in his seat and leans in toward me. “I’m not your father.” He speaks slowly and deliberately. “I won’t treat you the way he treated your mother.” There’s pain and bitterness in his voice.

  “Well, you’ve come damn close.”

  Our eyes meet. And we’re both glaring.

  He drops back in his seat and scrutinizes me. “If what your father did was so awful, why do you forgive him but not me?”

  Daniel’s hit a raw nerve, raising a question I’ve been asking myself. I resented my father most of my life for cheating on my mother and swore I’d never put up with that kind of behavior. But here I am, spending time with a man whose indiscretions were far worse than Daniel’s.

  “I haven’t forgiven him,” I say, struggling to work it out. “But he’s the only father I have and he’s getting old. I can’t change who he is. But I don’t have to put up with the same behavior from you.”

  Somehow I feel stronger, verbalizing the reason I won’t take Daniel back. Perhaps I am doing what I wish my mother had done when my father cheated on her. I don’t know if that’s bad or good. All I know is Daniel cheated on me. And being around him is painful.

  I sip the last of my champagne and stand. “Have a great time at Zach’s party.”

  He rises but doesn’t follow me.

  I leave the reception without a word to Aviva or Noah and pray they’re having too much fun to notice my absence. I helped Aviva plan the menu and the decorations and have been looking forward to this day. I feel terrible about leaving. But I can’t bear another minute in the same room as Daniel.

  When I pull up to my home, I hesitate before I get out, then let myself in through the front door. The house feels larger and emptier than when I left that morning. My cat, Mulligan, races downstairs and takes a running slide across the hallway to greet me. I reach down and scratch behind his ears. At least I’m not alone. Although it’s not even noon and I’m joining my father at seven to see a play, I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of Chablis.

  “L’chaim,” I say, raising the glass to Mulligan, who watches me from the kitchen table. “To life. And to the end of my lousy marriage.”

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  20

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  Tootsie and I are standing outside the Stage Door Theater in Fort Lauderdale, recovering from the schmaltzy Yiddisher vaudeville show that’s sent half the elderly audience into laughter and the rest into tears. We’ve just emerged from the darkened theater and everyone’s blinking in the glare of daylight and digging around in their pockets and purses for car keys. A gaggle of “mature” women in stiletto heels and velvet tracksuits file onto the bus for Harbour Villas. Two gray-haired gentlemen wait politely beside the door as they board.

  Suddenly, my father grabs my arm.

  “You see that?” He squeezes my elbow and propels me toward a poster advertising the show.

  I look where he points, at the photograph that dominates the poster. The show’s cast is hamming it up, the women showing their ankles beneath sparkly evening gowns and the men posing like overstuffed kishke in black tuxedos. In the middle of the photo is an obese woman in a strapless, black, sequined dress that does nothing to flatter her ham hocks of upper arms.

  Cynic though I am, I have to admit they put on a rousing show, belting out Yiddish songs and delivering a rapid-fire barrage of Jewish jokes. The audience laughed and sang along to the music. The theater grew quiet, though, when the heavy woman in the black sequins stepped into the spotlight and rendered an excruciatingly sentimental a cappella version of “My Yiddishe Mama.” The song’s a real tear jerker about the sacrifices a Jewish mother makes for her children. I was embarrassed to find myself damp-eyed.

  Tootsie coughs, a short bark that brings me back to the photo.

  “Yankel Fleishman,” he says, tapping a corner of the glass in which the poster is framed. He points to an image of the old man who came on stage before the performance to discuss the Jewish theater. He looked about ninety and spoke in such a heavy Yiddish accent that I had a hard time understanding him. “A big star when I was a kid. Like an angel, he sang,” my father says. “His voice brought tears to your eyes. I told you about Meyer Lansky?”

  I nod.

  “Even Lansky cried when he heard Fleishman’s ‘Yiddishe Mama.’ ”

  “Is that what they wrote in Variety? Fleishman makes Lansky cry?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Then how do you know?” I say. “You went to a nightclub to hear ‘Yiddishe Mama’ with a sobbing gangster?”

  “As a matter of fact, Miss Smarty-Pants, I did.”

  I purse my lips, fold my arms.

  “You don’t believe me?” He looks around to see if anyone’s listening. “Get in the car. I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  A busty Latina in a thigh-hugging skirt seats us at a booth across from the revolving dessert display. I can’t keep my eyes off the chocolate layer cake. My father’s eyes are on the waitress’s rear. After much debate, we agree on corned beef sandwiches, which is living dangerously in a Cuban diner that serves pork chops five ways.

  “So you liked the show?” Tootsie asks after the waitress takes our order.

  “It was okay. A little schmaltzy.”

  “What do you know? When I was growing up on the Lower East Side, that’s what we listened to. The old guy I showed you. Fleishman. He was huge. We’d go to the Yiddish vaudeville to see him every year for my parents’ anniversary. When I was in New York after Esther was born, I heard him again.”

  “With Meyer Lansky?”

  He shrugs. �
��In the same room.”

  “What were you doing in New York? Shouldn’t you have been in Miami with Mom?”

  “What I was or was not doing at home with your mother, may she rest in peace, is none of your damn business.” He looks over his shoulder. “I was in New York. On a job.”

  My father’s told me so many stories I can’t keep them straight, but I remember something about his working as a nightclub bouncer while my mother was pregnant with Esther. I mention it.

  “That didn’t pan out. I got fired when this big shot claimed I made advances on his Doll. Truth is, the broad came on to me when he went to the can. I turned her down so she told her boyfriend I was fresh. The manager had to let me go.” He shakes his head. “Esther was born a week later.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  “You don’t know from tough. I didn’t tell your mother until after Esther was born. I needed a job, and fast. I told your Uncle Moe and he asked around. Found out some of his friends needed help in New York. Someone strong who could work on the docks and keep his mouth shut.”

  “That would be you.”

  He grimaces and nods. “I’d have taken anything. A week after your sister was born, I was on the Orange Blossom Special heading to New York. I felt like a heel leaving your mother but what was I going to do? I had a wife and a kid to feed. Moe said a guy named Sammy would meet me at the station. I should look for a redhead.”

  He stops talking when the waitress returns to tell us they don’t have rye bread. Her accent is so thick I can barely understand her. My father has no problem and tells her to bring whatever she’s got.

  “Sure enough,” he continues, “the train pulls into Penn Station and this skinny red-headed guy is waiting for me. Short fellow. Old enough to be my father.”

  “What’s this got to do with Lansky?” I ask.

  “Keep your mouth shut and I’ll tell you.” He glares at me. “I introduced myself as Moe’s brother and he gave me this tough guy handshake, like he’s got something to prove. I figured he’s the boss and don’t squeeze back. He hailed a cab—my first time in a New York taxi—and took me to a classy hotel. Sammy told me to come upstairs once I’d dropped my suitcase in my room. And to shake a leg.